


We dance around a ring and suppose

by bilboakenshield27



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bathing/Washing, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Empath, Empath Jaskier, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, How Do I Tag, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mage Jaskier | Dandelion, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Torture, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilboakenshield27/pseuds/bilboakenshield27
Summary: “He twirled between tables, voice rising and falling, glancing surreptitiously around for an escape route. There was a small door behind the dais and the main entrance through which the queen had entered—both manned by four guards. Jaskier mentally calculated the blows to his dignity if he just booked it through the main door mid-song."-or-Jaskier is an empath.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 66
Kudos: 856





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends.
> 
> A couple things before you read this. I haven't read the witcher books, played any of the video games, or even watched all of the netflix series. So yeah. All of my knowledge has basically been garnered from youtube clips and reading a ton of 'source material' (read-ao3 geraskier fanfiction). So if you spot something that is canonically iffy, I'm sorry. I'm trying the best I can. 
> 
> I got inspired to write this while reading Empathy by Blind_Author, which is a delightful and brilliantly written sherlock fic. The only main similarity between the two is the empathy abilities, but I still wanted to pay credit where it is due.
> 
> The title is taken from a Robert Frost poem called The Secret Sits. 
> 
> Thanks a ton for reading this. I'm gonna try and update every few days. Hope you like it!

A squarish face framed by delicate golden curls, little earrings that glittered in the candlelight, her jade dress harking to glinting eyes. Like a ghost she had appeared in the doorway, guards stiffening in attention, and she paused for only a moment before she entered. 

Each confident step she took into the large hall echoed in the crowded space. Silent now were the once bustling maids who’d been pouring ale until they sloshed out of their chalices. Dancers now motionless. Noblemen’s flirtations quieted. The feast was overtaken by a spell, suspended in time, except for her. She glided up the dais and turned to fluidly to sit on the throne.

It was Jaskier who broke free of the silence first, slinging his lute behind his back and bowing in one swift motion.

“My Lady Cecilia, may I say that it is an honor to play for you this evening. You bless us with your presence.”

Queen Cecilia’s mouth quirked in the beginnings of a smile, as she gave the bard a small nod.

“I thank you. I am glad that I invited you here, bard. You’ve brought much needed cheer to my court.”

Jaskier bowed again, the formality of court etiquette second nature.

Once, many years ago, he would have been scolded by his mother for his audacity in addressing the queen. But that had been many moons past, back when he had still been fresh with adolescence, searching for answers to questions he did not know. Before he had left his mother and his father for the wonders of Oxenfurt, before his sordid love affair with music, before the never ending joys of the road.

Before Geralt.

The green eyed queen nodded at the silent crowd, and it was as if a bubble burst, tension snapping slack. Suddenly the hall exploded back to life, laughter rising once more, the cacophony of clinking platters and dinnerware returning.

Jaskier turned from Queen Cecilia, strumming a few new chords. The whole hall did not quiet as it had upon the entrance of its lady, but instead rose to meet the familiar melody. His trademark song, the one that had launched him into the annals of bardic history, the one that he had written with a secret recipe. A cup of anger, two cups of righteousness, and (the secret) only a pinch of ambition.

He caught the queen’s eye during the peaking _toss a coin._ She was smiling a soft smile, but her emerald eyes were hard. Jaskier felt her suddenly above all others in the packed hall. The icy steel of anger, the coldness of regret, the bitter sadness. Jaskier turned to wink at a nearby noblewoman, who blushed a pretty pink. So this is why he was invited so specifically here from Oxenfurt for the winter, despite the rumbling storm of Nilfgard on the horizon. And he had bragged so loudly to Valdo Marx.

He had realized it too late now. But he wasn’t a sorcerer, he couldn’t read minds, and so much of his gift was up to his interpretation. How was he supposed to know that this was a trap? He hadn’t looked too deeply into the apprehension of the guards who had summoned him, too wrapped up in lording over Valdo. If only Geralt could see him now. He’d probably curse him and call him an idiot. Right now, Jaskier would be inclined to agree with him.

He twirled between tables, voice rising and falling, glancing surreptitiously around for an escape route. There was a small door behind the dais and of course the main entrance through which the queen had entered—both manned by four guards. Jaskier mentally calculated the blows to his dignity if he just booked it through the main door mid-song. But no, that’s not what would get him out of this mess, and just because he realized something was amiss didn’t mean that he had to flee with his tail between his legs. Maybe this could be negotiated peacefully. Maybe he was simply overthinking things.

But as he leaned down to snatch a kiss on his cheek from a nearby courtier during the bridge, he knew to trust his instincts. If traveling with Geralt had taught him nothing else, it was to always err on the side of caution, and he could not deny the flood of evidence invading his mind. A noxious animosity filled the bright hall, and it was focusing upon him, sharpening into a poison needle.

When the last notes had faded into the air, he glanced again at the elegant lady seated upon her throne. With a small wave, she beckoned him, that soft smile remaining on her pale face. With a sudden clarity, Jaskier remembered the courtly gossip. How the queen had lost her husband to a kikimora last fall.

He walked towards the queen, careful to smile and flirt on his way there. Her jade dress shimmered as she crossed her legs beneath it.

“What pleasures you, My Lady?”

A spike of anger, cruel and pitch black, and a thin slice of greed erupted from her. Jaskier nearly flinched. She smiled sweetly. It did not meet her eyes.

“Bard, would you care to tell me about the witcher you travel with? Your songs are so intriguing.”

Ah, so was it revenge against Geralt that she wanted? Perhaps for her husband’s death? Jaskier wracked his brain, but he wasn’t sure he and his travel companion had been here that past fall. The reason didn’t really matter. He did not wish to stick around to find out.

“Ah, yes, the White Wolf,” Jaskier chuckled, his hand leaving his lute to brush back his hair. “What do you wish to know of him?”

The queen gestured kindly to a servant boy, who offered Jaskier a cup of wine. The tang of annoyance, but also apprehension. Jaskier took the cup gingerly.

“Would he be willing to come here to deal with several griffins plaguing my countryside? I’ve received several complaints from my farmers.”

That was a lie if he’d ever heard one. Jaskier nodded, holding the cup of wine off to the side, pretending to worry over spilling on his lute.

“I’m sure he would, My Lady, after the winter thaws and allows for travel.”

The queen nodded again, glancing over at Jaskier’s wine. 

“Please, have a drink. Do not insult my hospitality so.”

Jaskier gulped. There would be no avoiding it then. It was probably only laced with a sleeping agent. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

He took a small sip, smiling painfully at the queen.

She smiled back. A stab of sweet triumph darkened by thick blue determination and a deadly, deep sea green desire. Jaskier bowed, head swimming from both the drug and the dissonance of the queen’s saccharine expression and her aggressive emotions. Whatever she had had him drink was quite fast acting. He needed to leave, but his knees were shaking. His heartbeat was speeding up, faster than a fleeing kikimore.

“Not a patient one, are you, my Lady?” Jaskier slurred, his lute discordant as he reached out to right himself, stumbling forward as his hand met only air.

The queen laughed. It was a cruel thing.

The world blurred, a mix of roaring sound and bright flashes. He was plunged into a sea of emotions, shocking and cold and overwhelming. Trying to surface, he flailed about, but he remained submerged, gasping for relief.

Then blessed darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

There in the corner of a dirty, forgettable tavern in Posada was a witcher. Jaskier watched as he nursed his ale. The witcher was annoyed, but then again, so was everyone else in the tavern. The audience had been horrendous, and even with his ability to quite literally read the crowd, Jaskier was still pelted by food and rubbish. A man had even thrown his empty mug of ale at him, which Jaskier had only had the presence of mind to dodge just in time. 

For as long as Jaskier could remember, he had been able to feel other’s emotions. He knew when people were happy with a jaunty tune, sad at a tragic tale of loss sung in a whisper, angry as he leaped out of their daughter’s room window with lipstick smeared on his cheek. Each emotion had a taste, a smell, a texture—each new and unique to the person. No one’s emotions felt the same.

There was a new mix of emotions whenever Jaskier began to play. Over the years, Jaskier had become attuned to the pattern, the flavor of whenever someone enjoyed his music. And this devilishly handsome man in the corner, two swords strapped to his back, yellow eyes glimmering in the low light, hair as white as snow, liked it. He liked his lute. His voice. 

What followed was one of the most transformative days of his entire life. Name the bastard who had said that witcher’s did not have emotions and let him hang in the deepest pits of hell by his lying tongue. The punch to the gut at the moniker ‘the Butcher of Blaviken’ hid the deep hurt, the steep precipice of pain which Jaskier now stood at the top of, frightened as he peered over into the void within Geralt. Jaskier marveled at the compassion he held for a simple bard who he had just met not hours before, who by all rights had been nothing but an annoyance, acting like a gadfly—there was even the slight twinge of concern for his safety and wellbeing. And was that soft sympathy for elves who had beaten him not minutes before?

Geralt was awash with emotion, regardless of his many denials. Jaskier was struck by the _goodness_ within him. The man beside him was not one that you stumbled upon every day. He was kind and strong, but also so hurt inside. He had been punished merely for doing what was right, for letting his goodness leak out into the outside world.

At first, as Jaskier had mulled over this, walking ahead of Roach and idly strumming his lute, he had been clouded with anger. How dare so many with their foul, unfounded resentment look down upon a witcher whose quality stood head and shoulders above them?

But this anger soon gave way to new emotions, emotions which he stirred into song—a song he hoped to be the magical cure to his witcher’s rotten reputation.

So he traveled with his witcher. The long walks through winding mountains and the deep into forest bracken were worth it for the conversations alone. Well, not that Geralt tended to talk back. Grunts, and the occasional insult was all that Jaskier got on most days as he rambled on about this and that, asking about monsters and his life as a witcher.

To the inattentive eye, it would appear that Geralt was ignoring him, only humming at the pauses Jaskier provided, or simply not responding at all. But Jaskier knew from the ebbing and surging emotions filling him that Geralt was listening. The prick of annoyance, the buzz of curiosity, even the slight warmth of affection.

Then came the Djinn. For the rest of his life, Jaskier will remember the chaos emitting from his dear witcher. The dark black tendrils of despair, the sweaty taste of panic, immediately had worry lancing through him.

“I just want some damn peace!” Some much anger. _All pain._

For a second, Jaskier did not realize that the Djinn had attacked him, had pierced his throat in a savage attempt to fulfill Geralt’s supposed first wish, because the pain from Geralt had so overwhelmed him that he had felt it as if it were his own. It was only when that mania died down slightly did the pain sharpen, focusing on his throat, and suddenly he was grasping for Geralt’s hand and choking on his name. What was happening? For a split second, all Jaskier could feel was pain and a mounting worry, a surging _fear_ that made Jaskier wide eyed. He tried to say Geralt’s name again, but only blood left his lips, a matching fear in him rising to meet its twin. His vision began to shudder, and he quivered, a stupid thought slipping into the stream of his _oh shit oh shit fuck shit shit oh fuck._ A stupid thought, considering he was the one bleeding, the one in nigh blinding pain. But still, it slipped in all the same, quiet but telling. _Why was Geralt afraid? But Geralt’s never afraid. Is he ok? He had to be ok._

And then came Yennefer.

He guessed he had a lot to thank Yennefer for. It was her that made him realize that he was in love with his witcher. Made him realize that his witcher would never love him back.

The witch always smirked at him when she was with Geralt, her smug pride oozing off her, viscus like a slug’s slime. Jaskier hated it. But what he hated most of all was how Geralt lighted up when he saw her, a mix of emotions so powerful Jaskier always flinched. He loved her, that much was clear.

They went off together, Yennefer making flippant comments about the bard not being needed for their next task at hand. The thick rolls of lust left Jaskier sick. He felt tainted, his mind swirling with the remains of the cloying emotions of a man he wanted so badly but could never have. It was common for him to throw up not long after they’d gone to rut passionately in the room Jaskier had paid for with several long performances.

Yennefer always went away, never staying longer than several rounds of intense sex. Afterwards, Jaskier would be left with the emotional dumpster fire which was Geralt. Lashing, fire-whips of anger which wafted like billowing smoke in a strong breeze into Jaskier’s brain. But underneath it, a pain, charred and crumbling, that made Jaskier wish Yennefer dead. Weeks later, Geralt would think of her, looking away from Jaskier as soft love ebbed from him. Jaskier hated that too.

Yennefer had not caught on quickly to his abilities, even though she could actually read thoughts instead of mere emotion. It was in a rare moment of pettiness while they were trading barbs when he shoved his annoyance at her, emotions turning into a blunt weapon—not meant to hurt, although he could do that too. Just a small mental prod, harnessed from his own feelings. She flinched, clearly surprised, before narrowing her eyes.

“What’s this bard? So perhaps there is something useful about you after all.”

Jaskier snorted, mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t really thought this through. He’d been able to do this since he was a child, learning quickly the many consequences of such a mental attack—guilt, mental and physical exhaustion, and, worst of all, _questions._

“Well…”

Yennefer stared at him, before harrumphing. Jaskier blinked at the sudden sadness pouring from her as it sometimes did, a want that took away Jaskier’s breath. Against his better judgment, Jaskier wanted to know what Yennefer longed for, what she grieved so deeply, especially when she already had everything Jaskier could ever want.

“I take it back. You’re still completely useless,” the witch snapped at him, amethyst eyes cold. “But then again, that’s no surprise.”

Jaskier couldn’t retort back around the lump in his throat, around the raging storm in his heart.

Geralt had come into the tavern not long after, not even bothering to glance at Jaskier. Eyes only for her. Never for a useless bard.

Jaskier blinked open his eyes, dots dancing in his vision. Darkness flitted around him, doing little to reveal the small room. Thick, windowless stone walls, damp with leaking water and specks of moss in its crevices, crowded him in the compressing atmosphere. Light from several torches spilled in through a barred window in the cell’s door, flickering eerily against the shiny stone. A rat chittered in the corner, disappearing into a small hole in the floor.

It took several minutes for Jaskier to regain his full awareness, the drug that Queen Cecilia had given him sticking to his conscience like an old cobweb. So, the lady had him thrown in the dungeon. Wonderful.

Once he didn’t feel like throwing up from nausea, Jaskier took a deep breath and reached out with his mind, feeling out for emotional signatures.

Breezy indifference, a stale boredom, a coppery enjoyment. Three guards. And one of them appeared to be a sadist. Oh, how delightful. Could Jaskier get any luckier, really. 

It was only when he attempted to stand did he realize that his wrists and ankles were bound tightly with rope. He stared down at his bindings, tugging at them with increasing desperation. The coarse bindings rubbed his skin pink and raw, and Jaskier felt a hollowness in his heart expand, ballooning in his chest. Did they not think him worthy even of iron shackles? Apparently not. Not that he’d be able to get out of these simple rope bindings anyway.

One of the guards outside of the door had his lute. Jaskier knew this because the brute was attempting to play it—the discordant twanging of his baby’s strings made Jaskier flinch in sympathy and lurch awkwardly in anger, forgetting about his bindings. He snarled, feeling like a mother bear too far away from her endangered cub.

“That lute is worth more than your whore mother! Let her go or I swear I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to your pig family!”

The guards snickered, and one kicked the door.

“Shut up, witcher whore.”

Jaskier called out more insults, but they only laughed. Just as he was beginning to look around for anything sharp to cut his ties with, his cell door slammed open.

Enjoyment walked in. He was big man, hair greasy, face hidden mainly in shadow. But Jaskier could still see him sneering down at the bard. He was missing a few teeth.

Jaskier smiled back up at him, pushing out with his mind to see if he could sense any others. Just the two guarding either side of his door and the one sadist grinning down at him now.

“Well fuck,” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Now how may I help you, good sir?”

Enjoyment chuckled.

“Oh, don’t worry little bard. You’re right where you need to be.”

He punched Jaskier on the nose. Blood spurted, gushing swiftly down from his nose and down his lips and making Jaskier moaned in pain.

The man’s emotions sharpened beyond mere enjoyment—glee, excitement, _pleasure._

“So, where’s you’re witcher friend? Our queen is _very_ anxious to see him.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“He’s not here. He always goes away in the winter. I don’t know where he goes.”

A kick, this one to his ribs. He slumped further down on the ground, trying his best to curl up and away. The man was now visibly hard in his trousers. The assault on Jaskier’s mind was even more torturous.

“Don’t lie. Where is he?”

“I really don’t know! Really, I don’t, you stupid bitc—” Another kick, this one to his head. His vision swam, and his mind convulsed from the putrid pleasure soaking into him. 

It continued like this for a while, with Jaskier insulting the man and stowing Kaer Morhen deep away inside him. He did not know what the Queen Cecilia wanted with Geralt, but he knew it wasn’t good.

Bruised and bloody, Jaskier could only feel pain engulfing him, throbbing with each beat of his heart. The man was not a creative torturer, but he was brutal. Effective. He knew what he was doing. He had done it to many others before. Many had died, gurgling blood, in his hands. If Jaskier did not act quickly, he would be no different.

The door to his cell opened, and for one split second, through the haze of pain and perverted emotion eating at Jaskier from the inside out, he thought it might be Geralt, back to rescue him again. Like he always did. He blinked, blood dripping into his eyes.

It wasn’t Geralt. It was Lady Cecilia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one comment = one more reason for me to not do work I actually need to do


	3. Chapter 3

When he was a child, Jaskier was constantly at odds with his mother and father—a habit that did not change as he matured into adulthood. His parents had too many troubles with him as a baby. He would begin to cry with seemingly no explanation, especially if it had already been a bad day.

Growing up, he had discovered that nothing he did would ever truly satisfy his parents, no matter whatever else they said. So it was best to just leave them.

He hadn’t realized that he was different from anyone else until he had had a conversation with his nursemaid. For Jaskier, the colors and tastes of other’s emotions was so natural in his mind, so crucial to his understanding of the world, he could not imagine living without it—much less that he was unique in his abilities. His nurse had thought he had been imagining a play world, as kids so often did, and had scolded him for his shenanigans. When he had persisted, she had beaten him with a switch.

It was then that Jaskier realized that he was alone in the world. 

Jaskier remembered the first time Geralt got seriously injured during a hunt. A fight with a band of drowners, which on their own weren’t all that unusual or particularly threatening. But as Jaskier watched from his safe position two stone-throws up from the shore of the lake, he felt a sickening worry take him as more and more of the slippery monsters wriggled from out of depths, bellies swollen and claws bloody. A tweak of unease from Geralt had Jaskier nearly fall into a nervous breakdown. Should he make a distraction? What should he do? He fretted, clutching his lute case with a white knuckle grip, taking several steps closer and closer to the action.

Geralt cast Aard and used the brief respite to chug a potion. From there, the tides turned, and with a particularly brutal slash, Geralt hacked off the last drowner’s head. Huffing, eyes black with magic, Geralt began slogging out of the water, his boots squelching in the mud and the gore. Despite the grief he knew he’d get about it later, Jaskier hustled over to him, slowing down in the last several yards to mask his concern with fake bravado.

Closer now to him, Jaskier felt even more acutely what he could see with his eyes. Several cuts, long and thin, had sliced through Geralt’s armor. One long, deep one went diagonally down the witcher’s back. The witcher stumbled, nearly tripping hard in the uneven sand, but Jaskier caught him fast by the arm.

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

They managed to make it back to the inn where Jaskier had played at earlier that same evening. As the two tiredly staggered up the stairs to their room, Jaskier called down at the bartender to have a bath drawn for them as soon as possible. Jaskier threw in a wink and a small joke about some extra coin, and the bartender whistled at his daughters to carry up the tube and heat up the water.

As they waited for the bath, Jaskier helped Geralt over to the single chair in their small room. In the last few feet, Geralt pushed him away roughly before collapsing into the chair, which creaked under his weight. Jaskier didn’t take the hint, refusing to give the man any space. Figuring the garment was already stained anyway, he bunched up his doublet sleeve and wiped drowner guts from the witcher’s forehead.

Geralt grunted.

The innkeeper’s daughters, strong women with bulging biceps that easily lifted the heavy tub, soon had a scorching bath ready. Jaskier thanked them profusely, making sure to compliment not only their rosy cheeks and their auburn curls but also their brawn. They both giggled, glancing over at the witcher silently bleeding in the corner. When they shut the door, Jaskier wasted no time in helping Geralt peel off his leather armor.

The bath was not quick, but it was more efficient then previous baths he had helped Geralt with. Jaskier was proficient at cleaning wounds, but the sight of Geralt’s back had his heart clenching. The water sluicing off of him was dark with grime and blood, and the cut was ugly and deep. The witcher’s skin flapped, oozing puss and blood. Jaskier wanted to throw up.

As he cleaned the cut, Jaskier glanced up at Geralt’s bowed head. The pain was rolling off of him, wave after agonizing wave, and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to just pull it away from him. Jaskier bundled up the comfort he always felt when he was with Geralt. Once he had a small glowing ball of warmth, he tentatively eased it towards Geralt at the same time as he wiped around the wound. Geralt hummed, the small ball of warmth suddenly ballooning out within him. Jaskier smiled, pleased that Geralt was already happy to be with him, even before his attempt at emotional anesthesia.

But the pain was still there, a quiet agony that pounded Jaskier relentlessly. For a moment, Jaskier thought about trying to pull the pain onto himself—the reverse of his ability to push out emotion. He had never tried it before. Suddenly, Geralt slumped forward. Panicked, Jaskier caught him before his head could hit the side of the tub.

“Geralt?! Geralt!”

The witcher had passed out, presumably from pain. Cursing, Jaskier decided that now was as good a time as ever. Hugging Geralt to him with the witcher’s head resting on his shoulder, Jaskier reached out with his mind and _tugged._

A shock traveled up his arms, before a sudden, electrifying pain seared across his back. He cried out, a short scream he cut off by biting his tongue. Blood filled his mouth. For a few minutes, all Jaskier could do was cling to an unconscious Geralt and breathe through it.

When the pain had finally ebbed off, Jaskier leaned back to check on the witcher. Still unconscious. Jaskier let out a long breathe, before choking on a gasp.

The jagged wound that had gaped down Geralt’s back was gone. All that was left was a slight pink scar, as if the wound had taken weeks to heal. Jaskier felt a sudden horror flow through him, and in a panic he twisted his arms behind him, trying to feel if the wound had taken up shop on his back instead. But he felt nothing but smooth, unblemished skin, as if the pain from before had all been in his head—which, in a way, he supposed it was.

When Geralt woke up the next morning, Jaskier had made a few comments about the uncanniness of witcher healing. Geralt hadn’t even blinked an eye at him, only raising a silent judgmental eyebrow when Jaskier refused breakfast.

“I’m on a diet! This trim figure doesn’t just maintain itself you know. No, no, it’s just like my rigorous skin care routine. You have to be methodical in order to look as marvelous as I do—” and on he babbled until Geralt hummed his annoyance. It seemed that emotional healing caused Jaskier to have a severe loss of appetite. Which was completely understandable—who wanted to eat when the possibility of throwing up loomed so close.

Jaskier continued to heal Geralt with his knowledge—often while the man was bathing and couldn’t see Jaskier’s grimace and silent gritting of teeth as he took the pain slowly enough so that Geralt wouldn’t notice. He bought a salve as another cover for Geralt’s new, even faster witcher healing. Geralt would only, rising like a dripping god out of the bathtub as Jaskier fell quiet in an attempt to hide the lingering pain in his limbs.

But sweet Melitele, Jaskier was never more grateful for anything. Finally, something he could help Geralt with. Something useful.

Jaskier did not give Queen Cecilia’s entrance the same respect he had the first time when she entered her court. He laughed at her, bloody teeth flashing in the prison cell. His sadistic torturer punched him, the blow whipping his head sharply to the side. Still he chuckled, blood dripping from his lips.

“My Lady!” He cried out, faux debonair, trying to stifle his maniac giggling. “What pleasures you today, my fair queen?”

He raised his head slowly, blood gushing down his nose, into his mouth, and southward along his neck. People’s emotions were never clear or organized, but the queen’s were a mess. Jaskier’s pain addled brain struggled to make sense of the purple disgust, sour satisfaction, staunch anger—and a cruel, nesting thing that huddled up next to Jaskier like a savage pup. Vengeance.

So Jaskier had been right in remembering the death of her husband, pinned on Geralt for some stupid, irrational reason. The queen said nothing, nodding at Jaskier’s torturer. But her eyes never left Jaskier’s. It made something simmering within Jaskier boil over, something that Jaskier had had bottled up for a long time.

“What, cat got your tongue? You vile bitch. You know what would please me? If you dug up your husband’s dead body and sat on his rotting dick. I’m fucking glad he’s dead, the lucky bastard, because now he’s rid of being with you.”

Jaskier spat blood at her. The glob landed on her primrose dress, streaking down the silk. The queen still stared at him coldly, her emotions honing on anger and vengeance. Jaskier had never felt more alive in his entire life. His whole body shook with unbridled rage.

“You want to know where Geralt is, your majesty?!” he screamed, fighting against his bindings. His torturer punched him again, splattering blood all over the wall. Jaskier continued shrieking, unphased. Blood sprayed from his mouth, spattering more droplets of blood onto the queen’s dress.

“You want to know where he is?! I WON’T FUCKING TELL YOU! You’ll have to kill me first, and then where will your vengeance be, hmm?” His hum caught in his throat, causing him to cough. More blood splashed onto the floor. 

“It’ll be gone. Your perfect little vengeance will be all dried up, run out like a spring in a drought. And you’ll be starving, thirsting for it even more, but there’ll be no relief, because I’ll never fucking tell you what you need to know. You demon’s spawn. If I survive this I’m going to write a ballad about the cloven hooves you hide underneath your petticoats, the forked tongue you use to suck off—” His torturer kicked him in the stomach. Jaskier curled into the blow, but the bastard struck him on the back of the head, and his vision bobbed back and forth. Another kick to the ribs. A stomp on his shins.

A strong hand grasped his hair and yanked his head back against the stone wall. Jaskier blinked blearily, expecting to see the horny face of his torturer. But no, he met the frigid green eyes of Queen Cecilia. Jaskier blinked slowly, his head throbbing. The emotions around him were fuzzy and floating, but the queen’s anger was expanding like a puss-filled spider bite. Jaskier’s mouth worked, trying to gather enough spit and blood to hack up at her, when suddenly.

The queen smiled.

It was the same smile Jaskier remembered from her court—cheerless and cruel. It made Jaskier want to shiver in fear.

She drew back, and her torturer took the opportunity to stomp on his shins once more. Jaskier moaned in pain.

“Well, well dear bard. What a mouth you have.”

The lady tugged at her dress, straightening it up a bit, before pushing her flowing curls behind her ears.

“But it seems as if you’ve been misinformed as to why you’re here,” she smirked, as if deeply amused, a stark contrast to her smoldering emotions. “You see, the nature of your precious witcher’s location could mean fuck all to me.”

Jaskier froze, his entire body going rigid at the admission. Confusion bulged in his head like a sore, and with it welled fear. The queen continued, enjoying Jaskier’s widening eyes.

“Oh, no, no. There are…certain individuals who’d love to know the witcher’s location. An envoy from Nilfgaard just arrived the other day, you know, promising me many great and wondrous things for such prized information.”

It was as if she were toying with a knife in front of him. His fear was running hot now, and the queen’s cruel happiness swelled up to meet it.

“But no, my dearest bard, they could not give me anything greater than the gift I already have,” her eyes flashed. “You have no idea how much joy seeing you bound and bleeding like this gives me.”

The part in Jaskier that had no self-preservation at all had the sudden urge to point out how much he really _did_ have an idea of how much joy it gave her, but he remained silent. His mind raced. Had he ever been to queen Cecilia’s court before? Yes, maybe once, long ago when he was still much younger and had only been with Geralt a few years. He didn’t remember sleeping with anyone important—not a scandal to warrant such a response from Queen Cecilia. He squirmed for a moment, frantically trying to figure out what the fuck was happening.

“Your stupid husband—”

“Oh, I give fuck all about my husband, that pompous bastard” she snapped, but then her voice broke on a half a sob. “It’s what you did to my Dawid.”

Jaskier reeled from the sudden bloating grief from the queen, but his confusion remained.

“Who?”

The queen shrieked like a banshee and slapped him across the face. It wasn’t particularly painful, but it was getting hard to see out of his swelling left eye.

“My son! You killed my only son!”

Jaskier huffed a laugh.

“Lady, I’ve never killed anyone in my entire li—”

Another slap, and the queen was screeching. Jaskier was having trouble seeing her purpling face.

“You _killed_ him, you son of a bitch! He heard your stupid little witcher song and decided to go slay himself a monster.”

Jaskier felt indignation puff up his chest.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now. You’re torturing me because your son was dumb enough to go after a monster by himself? That’s the most absurd—”

Pain bloomed on his other cheek, a punch with some real power behind it. Jaskier coughed, blood sticking in his throat. When he’d finally caught his breath, the icy rage of the queen had risen to a crescendo. The queen took another step closer to him, leaning in so that her face was right next to his.

“You’ll pay me with your life” she whispered into his ear. “And so will your precious witcher. When I get my hands on him, you’ll watch him die like I watched Dawid die.”

She took a step back, snickering down at Jaskier’s stricken face.

“And I’ll be able to give Nilfgaard the child they want. Really, it’s killing two birds with one stone,” she slapped Jaskier again, before continuing to hiss. “I’ll enjoy seeing you ripped to shreds, monster whore. When I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for death.”

With that, she turned in a flourish of blood-stained silk. His torturer followed after giving Jaskier one final kick. The door slammed shut, the lock clinking into place. Darkness enveloped the prison cell.

And then Jaskier was alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are to me as Geralt's adventures are to Jaskier, i.e. they are PRECIOUS. 
> 
> Really, even a 'hm' is welcome :)


	4. Chapter 4

Borch was hiding something. His emotions were broad and deep like the Yaruga river, and it made Jaskier narrow his eyes at him when his back was turned. Old. That man was very old—perhaps older than he was letting on. Jaskier thought it odd, how cool calm he was as he stared up at Geralt and let go of the chain. But what could he tell Geralt. _Oh that Borch fellow who fell to his death, remember him? I don’t think he’s quite human because I can sense other’s emotions and his seemed a bit strange to me._

Jaskier sat down next to Geralt. The rock he had chosen had a breath-taking view of the sprawling, jagged mountains, and for a moment Jaskier did not want to speak. Many times Jaskier had found himself with Geralt, staring down at the sheer cliff face of his pain and guilt and regret. An aching sadness, a _grief_ that scooped down into a deep part of Jaskier.

Jaskier’s voice was a whisper. Its sole purpose was to soothe, to act as a balm on the throbbing emotions within the witcher beside him.

“You did your best. There was nothing else you could’ve done.”

The wind whistled, soft, and all Jaskier wanted to do was gather up the man beside him into his arms—the man who could crack his back in one second, could snap his head off in two—and tell him how much he was loved. To show him, holding his hand like a child, the blinding light within him, no matter how he sought to deny it. Perhaps, they could go to the coast, and as Jaskier whispered it, the idea bloomed before his eyes. Geralt on the beach, looking out on a sunset such as this. Away from the world.

“Life is too short. Do what pleases you, while you can.”

“Composing your next song?” Already Geralt was taking a few steps back from that cliff of pain and guilt, his emotions easing down into something genuine and soft. Fondness.

“No, just uh…” and here Jaskier thought, maybe Geralt will understand that star sparkling hope within him. Maybe now was the time to tell him about his empathy, his love. “…just trying to figure out what pleases me.”

But then Geralt left him. Left him for _her._

The rat in his cell was surprisingly good company. Jaskier talked to it, feeling all at once like Geralt talking to Roach. He couldn’t really feel animal’s emotions. They were muted, like trying to listen to a conversation with wool stuffed down one’s ears. The rat was such a simple creature. It was defined by hunger, and Jaskier had commiserated with it.

“They haven’t fed me in days either, my friend,” Jaskier rasped. His voice was hoarse from dehydration and screaming. His sadistic torturer, whose name Jaskier had learned was Feliks, had told him how sweet his screams were with a raw throat.

The rat climbed up onto Jaskier’s knee, riffling through the fabric in search of food. He sniffed his way up Jaskier’s leg, little nose twitching as he got up on his hind paws.

“Viktor, I’d give you food if I had any.”

The rat, now christened Viktor, jumped down from Jaskier’s leg.

“You know, how amazing would it be if you chewed off the ropes binding me here?” Jaskier chuckled weakly. “That’s the stuff of ballad’s, that. Viktor, you seem like a good muse. If you let me free, I’d compose a whole song series for you. Ballad after ballad about your cute little rat claws and your handsome, matted fur and your beady little eyes. You’re certainly more grateful then my former muse was.”

Viktor chittered, scampering away into his hole in the wall. Jaskier frowned after him.

“Where are you going? Did you not like my description? I’m sorry, I’m a bit out of it at the moment, I’m afraid I’m not doing your majestic splendor justice,” Jaskier coughed. “Or perhaps you’re off to go find help. Run along Viktor! Go, catch me a savior and lead them here!”

With Viktor gone, Jaskier sat there, alone. The silence was too much.

Despite the condition of his throat and his intermittent coughing, Jaskier began to sing. He belted out toss a coin a few times, before making up a small ditty about Viktor. One of the two guards in front of his cell laughed.

“By god, I think Feliks has broken this one. He’s singing about rats.” Jaskier wanted to laugh. As if he hadn’t been insane enough to talk to rats before they had thrown him in prison and tortured him. The guard kicked his door, yelling at him. “Oi bard! Do you want some accompaniment?”

There was a bit of shuffling before suddenly Jaskier could hear his poor lute being abused. Rough fingers strummed her heavily, forcing the beautiful instrument to twang. Jaskier growled, a hold over from spending decades with a witcher, but all it did was worsen his throat and make the guards guffaw. They knew how much Jaskier hated them playing his lute, and the one guard had fancied himself quite a ‘good’ lutist. Jaskier wanted to kill him.

Mercifully, they stopped tormenting his baby soon after, and Viktor returned. Incredibly, the rat had come back with a scrap of bread. The scrap was green and fuzzy with mold, and as the rat dropped it on the cell floor, Jaskier saw a weevil slowly crawl out from it. But Jaskier only smiled down at the rat, who sniffed at the scrap a few times before frantically nibbling it.

“Thank you, Viktor, for the kind offer of food. But I’m afraid I’m on a diet. This thin figure doesn’t just maintain itself you know. It’s important to look good for the ladies.” Another cough, one that shook his whole body. The ropes binding his arms to his chest constricted tightly around him as his lungs tried to expand. Blood trickled down his arms.

“Plus, what would Geralt say? I told him I was on a diet, and knowing him, he’ll want to hold me accountable. Imagine his scorn if he found out I’ve been unfaithful to my dietary regime.”

Viktor ate the rest of the bread, sniffing the ground for crumbs, which he quickly ate too.

Suddenly, the door crashed open. Jaskier didn’t even flinch, having felt the rising anticipation and pleasure seeping off of Feliks as he had walked down the hall to his cell. Feliks licked his lips. Jaskier scowled again as he watched Viktor once more scurry away in fright, slipping away into the wall. Jaskier wished he could hide away like that—just scamper away into a crack and avoid all the pain outside.

The beating was a typical one. It left Jaskier moaning and disoriented, as it normally did. But then, Feliks muttered something under his breathe, something Jaskier missed. His pain addled brain caught “slut” and something else. Jaskier tried to blink away the dots in his vision and the blood dripping into his eyes.

Feliks was beginning to untie him.

Jaskier had to watch his step as he descended down to where Geralt stood. The mountain’s side had so many loose rocks it reminded him of the gravel pathways at Oxenfurt. The steep decline, combined with his poor choice of boots (which were the pinnacle of fashion, by the way) made the prospect of slipping and falling a very real and embarrassing danger.

As he got closer to Geralt, he felt the witcher’s rage growing, growing, growing. The hurt there was scarring, but the rage boiled over like a potion pot. But the bard had dealt with an enraged Geralt before—many times, honestly. He knew it was best to take the man’s mind off of things, to steer him away from the darkness, just as he had earlier. Jaskier loved this man too much to let him stew in the toxic swill bubbling up from heart. Providing comfort was never easy, but as Jaskier had learned long ago, he would do anything for the witcher below him.

“Phew! What a day! I imagine you’re probably—”

Suddenly, the rage swelled up, so much so that Jaskier almost took a step back, as if hit by a physical blow.

“Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shoveling it?”

Jaskier gulped, a fear gripping his heart as Geralt’s eyes pinned him in place. “Well, that’s not fair—”

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!”

The rage pouring off of Geralt was not pure. It was twinned with another emotion, one sharp like a striga’s fangs. _Hatred._

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

Geralt turned sharply, _disgusted._

“Right. Uh…” Jaskier could not think of anything to say. His mind was repeating a mantra. _Geralt hates him Geralt hates him Geralt hates him so much._ Jaskier tried to clear his throat, but there was something heavy choking him. He stared at Geralt’s back, at his hair ( _his beautiful gossamer hair that Jaskier had washed and braided and run his fingers through)_ and felt his heart stutter. _He can’t even bare to look at him._

“Right then. I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.”

Jaskier paused, waiting for something. Anything. But Geralt’s emotions did not change. The towering anger had somehow been surpassed by the all-encompassing hatred. _Geralt really hated him that much._

“See you around Geralt.”

And Jaskier had walked off. He had walked until he could no longer feel Geralt. But he could still feel that stabbing hatred, even as Jaskier trudged on through twilight, stumbling and tripping as he took the long way down the mountain. He fell many times, scrapping his knees and hands and elbows, but he did not feel the cuts. All he could feel was Geralt’s hatred which clung to him like a ghost. Each step had the emotion mounting, expanding in Jaskier’s mind until it had obliterated all other thought and feeling.

Jaskier, blind in the darkness, fell once more, thankfully landing in a patch of grass. The grass was soft and still warm from when the sun had set, and Jaskier did not want to get up. How could he, a man who knew the true emotions of everyone around him, have missed those of the man he held most dear? How had he not noticed how unwanted his company was? Each moment now that Jaskier had felt Geralt’s fondness—now he realized, Geralt must have been thinking of something else. He had been right in thinking those soft emotions were for Yennefer alone. There was only annoyance truly directed his way. Only hatred.

How could anyone live through such grief?

He did not know.

He left for Oxenfurt. Oxenfurt was all he had left. Each day brought more news of war and massacre.

As winter fast approached, several guards knocked on the door to his office. They wore stony faces, but reeked of apprehension, and the sealed invitation they bore promised money and distraction. Jaskier had accepted without a second thought—had even boisterously bragged to his students and his colleagues, raising his voice loudly when Valdo was within ear shot. He brushed off their concern that the war would endanger him. He packed his bags, light and simple, as any true traverser of worlds would, and joined the guards on the journey to Queen Cecilia’s court. 

At first, Jaskier felt an irrational relief. There were unbelievable possibilities flashing through his mind with each rope undone, each binding loosened and tossed aside for the first time since he’d been thrown in this prison. Had Queen Cecilia finally shaken off insanity and realized that he was utterly free of any blame for her son's death? Were they letting him free?

Feliks’s trousers hit the floor.

The sudden panic that flooded through Jaskier was unlike any other he’d ever felt before. His heart tripled in speed, racing faster than a fleeing bruxa. He became even more dizzy with it, his blood rushing. No, not this. Not this not this not this please—

Feliks flipped Jaskier onto his back, which was covered in blood and darkening grey bruises. He grasped Jaskier’s hips, his fingernails like talons as they dug into the tender skin. Feliks’s excitement was cloying, a sickening scent in Jaskier’s mind, ten-fold stronger than it had ever been. This couldn’t be happening—Jaskier _couldn’t—_

Jaskier gathered up all of his panic, all of his fear—fear for his own life and for Geralt—all of his pain, the hurt, the despair—he concentrated it within him, forming a ball of blackness.

Feliks took himself in hand, jerking a couple times, before prodding at Jaskier’s—

In a rush, Jaskier pushed the ball of emotion out. It surged, spearing the man behind him and the two guards at the door. All three screamed, overwhelmed with the churning intensity of the emotions. His torturer fell to his knees, clutching his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face.

Jaskier knew he didn’t have much time, but he was weak from weeks and weeks of beatings and torture and Queen Cecilia descending down to his cell to revel in his pain. He tried to get up, but he stumbled and fell. Dragging himself forward, exhausted and aching, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered out of the cell. With a fuzzy mind, he blinked at his lute laying on the ground where the guard had dropped it. Bending over to pick her up was worth every second of agony.

Navigating out of the dungeon was both difficult and easy. He easily avoided passing guards, sensing the proximity of their emotions as they made their rounds, but walking proved to be excruciating. He suspected that his right leg was broken, and both of his feet had broken toes. Jaskier glanced back and noticed he was dripping blood along the floor. Shit. Hopefully no one would notice the gruesome breadcrumbs.

The dungeon’s exit led up into Queen Cecilia’s castle and into halls that the bard was more familiar with. It was getting more and more difficult to avoid passing servants. Many passed by Jaskier carrying empty plates and jugs, hustling quickly with an urgency Jaskier recognized. It would seem that Queen Cecilia was holding another feast.

Leaning against a wall, desperately trying not to collapse, Jaskier tried to draw a mental map of the palace. From where he was, he’d inevitably have to pass by the main hall, so close was the huge gathering place to the main entrance to the castle. He’d have to be swift—swifter than he was now, limping along. His mind was still throbbing with the effort of incapacitating three minds, but if he had to, he would execute another emotional attack.

He just had to make it out of here alive.

Shambling forward, he kept his head down, ducking away to hide behind the huge furling tapestries that decorated the hallways when a group of servants scurried by. The myriad of Queen Cecilia’s bustling retainers reminded the bard of Viktor. He made a silent vow that if he survived, he’d refine the frivolous tune he’d composed for the rat. He had a feeling Geralt would fine it amusing, at least. Maybe the witcher would even smile, if he ever heard it.

Jaskier soon found himself at a crossing of hallways, back flush to the stone wall as he slid behind another tapestry. He peeked around the corner, and there was the main hall, heralded first by the burgeoning sound of laughter and discussion and energetic music. Jaskier silently scoffed at the minstrel Cecilia had gotten to replace him. What a disgrace.

The four guards that had stood so stiffly at attention at the hall’s entrance when Jaskier had played for the court were strangely absent. Had the queen been so anxious about him making an escape that she'd only had the guards there when Jaskier was performing? That seemed unlikely. Perhaps the guards were just out of Jaskier’s line of sight. He reached out with his mind, and promptly almost fainted from the overpowering wave of hundreds of nobles and servants, all varying in happiness and desire. Jaskier shrunk back into his mind, shivering slightly as he leaned his head back against the wall. Too much. That was too much.

But for a moment, he thought he had recognized an emotional signature within the engulfing multitude. A sharp wit, a deadly confidence, and a suffocating power.

Yennefer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. The angst in this chapter is a bit of an oh boy. Hope you guys liked it.
> 
> Toss a comment to your fellow geraskier shipper


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We dance around in a ring and suppose,  
> But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.   
> \- Robert Frost

Oxenfurt was beautiful in the fall. The campus was host to many old trees—oaks and maples, birches and rowans. The autumnal colors always took Jaskier’s breath away.

His favorite tree was by far the birch. Their thin white trunks contrasted with the stark yellow of their fall foliage, and Jaskier had loved to climb up them as a child, knees wrapped tight around the knobby trunk as he shimmied up to new heights.

There was a specific birch tree at Oxenfurt which Jaskier always went to study under. It was tucked away behind the library, and the patch of grass underneath it was soft. It was under this tree that he took his lover of two years, Maria. He was serious about her—as serious as he would later be about the Countess de Stael. That autumn day, he told her about how he could sense the emotions of those around him, how he felt comfortable enough with her to tell her his secret. How much he trusted her.

She’d slapped him. Recoiled from him. Called him a freak. A monster. Accused him of manipulating her feelings.

She ran away, leaving him under the birch tree. Jaskier stayed there for a long time, listening to the wind rustle through auric leaves, watching squirrels scurry up pale boughs.

He would never tell anyone about his abilities again.

Jaskier’s back pressed against the wall of Queen Cecilia’s palace. If only he could melt into the cool stone. Pain arched up his spine, spreading like a poison. He shook his arms, spraying red droplets everywhere and jostling his lute as he tried to regain feeling in his fingers. Every inch of him hurt.

Why the fuck was Yennefer here?

This complicated things. This complicated things greatly. His previous escape plan of simply running past the main hall was now no longer an option.

He had to warn her.

A small part of himself, the miniscule section of his brain that, in fact, _did_ have self-preservation, despite what Geralt might say, whispered in Jaskier’s mind. Yennefer could take care of herself—she was the strongest sorcerer Jaskier had ever known. And what was Jaskier supposed to do? Ruin his (brilliant, flawless, absolutely would probably work) escape plan by bursting into the hallway just to warn her? Like she would need any warning, she could read minds, couldn’t she? She wasn’t like Jaskier, always too weak to save himself. She was powerful.

Jaskier took a deep breath. All of that was true.

But.

_But._

There was always a chance. Always a chance that they would spike her drink with the same drug they had gotten him with—the same honeyed trap. Because of Jaskier.

Fuck.

Peeling himself from the wall, Jaskier peeked around the corner. The hallway leading to the main hall was still bustling with servants, and Jaskier wondered how he had thought he’d make it out of this palace at all. His mind was weak, still aching from incapacitating Feliks and the two guards—he could make one more mental attack, and that would be it. Speaking of his torturers, they were most likely recovering. They’d be up to sound the alarm of his escape very soon.

He was going to get recaptured again, and the thought settled itself in the bard’s stomach, a heavy presence sinking in his chest. He was going to be caught and thrown back in the dungeon. Thrown back into that pressing darkness for Feliks to have his way with. Thrown back into hell.

At least Yennefer would be warned. She would be able to leave. To return to the man who loved her. To make him happy—happier than Jaskier ever could. 

Jaskier grit his teeth. If only he wasn’t so weak. If only he was stronger. If only Geralt were here, he would know what to do, and even if he didn’t, he was tough enough to muscle his way through this mess.

But Geralt wasn’t here. And if Jaskier did this right, he never would be.

Jaskier stepped out from his hiding spot, swinging his lute in front of him as he slowly walked down to the main hall’s entrance.

Each step was measured, confident—the blood pounding in his ears was an orchestra rising up in a deepening crescendo, a dramatic climax. Here would be Jaskier’s last famous moments, remembered by all who saw it. Gone was the pain. Gone was the fear. In its place was something unstoppable, something that swelled like trumpets and resonated like beating drums.

The servants who saw him, once so preoccupied by their urgent tasks of acquiring new wine jugs and plates of roasted meats, stilled. They did not move to stop him—they did not move at all. They stared at him, their awe building, adding to the escalating symphony within Jaskier. With wide eyes, they all parted for him, as if he were some holy creature.

He stopped at the entrance.

At first, no one noticed him. As Jaskier surveyed the hall, all the nobles continued their laughing and drinking and dancing. The fool that the queen had replaced him with still pranced about on his tip-toes, his lute squealing like a spanked babe. Jaskier looked up at the dais. Queen Cecilia was flanked by a dozen guards, a clear display of strength. Yennefer frowned next to her, whispering back and forth with the queen.

It was then that the first nobles began to notice him. Their chuckles cut off sharply, their smiles fading. Their silence spread like a breeze through wheat, rippling out from where Jaskier stood. The musician’s playing ended abruptly in a discordant screech. Jaskier kept his eyes pinned on the dais as both Yennefer and Queen Cecilia looked up to see what had caused the sudden blanket of silence to descend on the hall’s merrymaking.

For a few tense seconds, the entire hall held its breathe, staring at the bard who was dripping with his own blood. His skin was marred by black bruises, his ripped clothes displaying a savagely beaten body—he looked like a haunted apparition—a walking corpse. Jaskier stood proudly in the doorway with his eyes of fire, molten and fierce, focused like a falcon on the throne.

Queen Cecilia’s face had turned pale, her green eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost. A bright surprise and salty fear. She was _afraid_ of him. Jaskier flicked his gaze to Yennefer, who was all surprise. She raised an eyebrow at him, as if it was every other day that he burst into feasts drenched in his blood and filth.

He began walking towards them. He did not stumble or falter, even as his blood continued to ooze down his arms and trickle down his lute. The noblemen and women scurried out of his way as he slowly but surely made his way up the long hall.

Shaking her head as if to physically shake away the emotions Jaskier felt clinging to her like a curse, Queen Cecilia motioned frantically at the guards at her back.

“Kill him!”

For a second, the guards were too stunned to follow the order, before they burst into action. Circling around the main table where the queen sat, they descended on Jaskier, swords drawn.

Jaskier didn’t even stop walking. The fury and determination within him was insurmountable, a surge he had never felt before. He was angry at Queen Cecilia, at Yennefer, at the world, at Destiny, and at himself. All of his life he had been shown time and time again that he was useless to the one’s he loved—he was worthless to his parents, and he was a burden to the love of his life, Geralt. But god dammit, if this was to be his final act, he would _prove,_ to himself and to the world, that Jaskier the bard did not quiver and shrink away from his final chapter, but with a final flare, commanded the stage.

Jaskier flung out balls of that anger, wrapped as it was in pain, at the guards that approached him. They each fell like flies hitting an unseen forcefield, their weapons clattering on the floor as they clutched their heads at the emotional overload. Jaskier merely stepped over them, unphased in his slow march towards the queen.

The whole hall was terrified now, the awe giving way to rumbling storm clouds of fear. And like storm clouds, fear came with lightening.

“You bastard bard!” Lady Cecilia shrieked, reeking of fear. Jaskier did not take his eyes off her.

“So you were a bloody mage this whole time! I knew it! You cursed my Dawid! You put a spell on him! You sent him to his death, you fucking coward!”

She stood up, spittle flying as she pointed a menacing finger down at the steadily approaching bard. Jaskier remained silent.

“I was going to make you suffer for what you did. Make you feel ten thousand times the pain he felt. I was going to drag everyone around you into hell!”

At this, Jaskier shifted his gaze from Cecilia to Yennefer. The witch now looked at the woman next to her in disgust, her nose wrinkled as if she had just caught the rotting stench of a ghoul. Her purple eyes flashed with magic, and Yennefer turned to meet Jaskier’s gaze with a sudden understanding.

The fear that had choked the entire hall now was turning into something else. The careful image of power and confidence that Cecilia had built up for herself was crumbling, and in its place was this yelling _thing_ nearly foaming at the mouth. The entire court was shifting with unease, a collective emotion that echoed off itself in the large hall. As Cecilia continued to hurl brutal insults at the calmly advancing bard, Jaskier felt how that unease transformed into a reflection of Yennefer’s disgust at the unhinged queen.

Finally Jaskier stepped onto the foot of the dais. His knees were beginning to shake from exhaustion and pain. The force of attacking so many guards had ravaged his mind, now raw and tender. He felt his vision beginning to tunnel, but still he took step after step forward. _You’ll have to kill me first,_ he’d told the queen during his torture, and by the gods, _they’d have to kill him first._

“Right,” Yennefer said, voice clipped, “I’ve seen enough.” And with that, she waved her hand, grabbed the bard by his shoulders, and shoved him into the expanding portal. In a blink, Jaskier was stumbling and falling to his knees in a few inches of snow.

“Jaskier!”

His vision was spotty, and then a sudden rushing black. He passed out.

When Jaskier woke up, it was to warm contentment and the sound of someone humming _Her Sweet Kiss._ He had a splitting headache, but he forced himself to blink his eyes open, a spike of fear running through him. He stared up blearily at a stone ceiling, a grim acceptance filling him once more. So, he’d been recaptured.

“Oh, stop being melodramatic, bard. It’s tiring to listen to. You’re perfectly safe.”

Jaskier jolted, sitting up quickly. His headache hammered, and he shut his eyes for a moment, opening them only as the pounding subsided. He was on a bed, and there, sitting in front of a roaring fire, was Yennefer.

“What?” He croaked, his voice rough from disuse, a million questions flooding his thoughts, making the headache worse. Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Calm down, will you. I’m not going to answer all of those questions, but you’re in Kaer Morhen.”

Kaer Morhen. For a second, the name and its significance did not sink in, and Jaskier tilted his head like a confused puppy. Kaer Morhen, the den of Witchers. Jaskier flinched. If that was true, that meant that Geralt was here, and—

Suddenly, the door to the room he was in crashed open and in charged a small girl, white hair streaming behind her. Jaskier immediately recognized her. The resemblance she had to her mother was uncanny.

Jaskier gave her a pained smile as she slowed down enough to stop at his bedside. Bright excitement, sweet relief—her emotions glowed like the smile on her face, and their intensity made Jaskier’s headache worse. But this was Geralt’s Child of Surprise, and Jaskier was happy to see her safe.

“Princess Cirilla, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Jaskier said, clearing his disused voice and putting on the biggest smile he could. The Lion Cub of Cintra frowned at him, her emotions turning slightly darker as she stared at him longer—tangy metallic guilt.

“Call me Ciri. I’ve heard so much about you, Jaskier.”

Yennefer started chuckling in the corner while Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, well I’m honored, Ciri, that you’ve heard of me. I guess I am a rather famous bard, after all.” At this, Jaskier puffed up his chest in a show of fake bravado, the same way a peacock might, just to see the following smile on the princess’s face.

After rewarding Jaskier with a giggle, Ciri rolled her eyes, as if Jaskier had missed the point.

“He told me you’d be like this. Really, Geralt’s told me all about—”

“Ciri.”

Jaskier froze as the girl turned to the door, to the man who had just rumbled out her name.

Geralt.

For a second, Jaskier could not move his eyes to meet him, but his fool heart wanted to see his witcher alright. He stared up into golden eyes—the fire flickering in their depths, their beauty just as striking as when Jaskierr had first seen them. Geralt held his gaze for a moment, a few seconds that felt like the length of Jaskier’s entire life, when he broke away to look down at Jaskier’s form slowly curling in on itself in the bed. His expression turned hard, almost unreasonable, but the emotion flood that was triggered was deafening.

Jaskier blinked heavily. The emotions—too many emotions—what were his and what were not? So much sadness, grief, regret, resentment. But above all, there was sticky guilt, a guilt that was green like mucus and just as slimy and clinging, and that same red _hatred_. Jaskier’s mind pulsed with each throb of hatred, his vision swimming as it got louder and louder like a racing heartbeat filling his ears. Too much, too much, too much—

He fainted.

“I did not faint!”

Ciri continued giggling from where she sat next to Jaskier. When he had woken up, he had been able to take more stock of his surroundings, including his physical health, which wasn’t great. He was covered in bruises and bandages, but then, that was to be expected in the aftermath of torture. Up next was recovery.

Right now, Ciri was taking a break from her training with Lambert, who was, as Jaskier had discovered, a complete and utter dick, even when he was trying to be nice. Jaskier had been told that it was usually Geralt who trained Ciri, but Jaskier had yet to see him since waking up after he had—

“—passed out! I passed out! I did not _faint,_ I simply succumbed to my injuries and—will you shut up Lambert!”

Lambert, who was sniggering along with Ciri, stood on the other side of the sandy training pit, not even trying to hide his doucheness. Jaskier stuck his tongue out at him, sending Ciri into another fit of giggles.

Just then, Yennefer walked in.

“Oh lovely, you’ve all gone insane.”

Jaskier rounded on the witch, attempting to get up but failing to with his broken leg still healing. The powerful sorceress had healed him significantly, no doubt saving him from an inevitable death by infection, but there were still some things that Yennefer said would be best to heal slower and more naturally. This meant that Jaskier had taken on his well-practiced role of ‘walking wounded’ in addition to his place as a musician—a role he had exaggerated often while on the Path with Geralt.

Now, though, he didn’t complain about his injuries as an attempt to stop the cloying guilt pouring off of Ciri whenever his wounds were mentioned. He had told her just that past night that his wounds were not her fault, and she had cried in his shoulder.

“Yennefer, I know _I’m_ insane, but dear, how could imply my sweet Ciri is! She’s mildly crazy at best. Don’t even bother with Lambert. He’s too late to save.”

Jaskier had only been at Kaer Morhen a week, and so many things had happened. He had met Ciri and Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir. He had never been more excited but at the same time nervous to meet the other witchers, feeling oddly at home but out of place. Jaskier had forgotten what it was like for others to want him around.

It was the same with Yennefer. She was still cold and insulting, but her emotions were much softer than Jaskier had ever seen them. The greatest surprise Jaskier had discovered was that, unlike a certain other witcher, she did not hate him.

“Yes, well we all know Lambert has a brain of horse hay,” the sorceress replied, smirking. Lambert growled, but his eyes were still laughing. Yennefer turned to Ciri.

“It’s time for dinner. Ciri, you’ll need a bath after, you look more sand monster than sorceress-to-be.” And so they left to go eat, each of them walking slowly as Jaskier limped along to the room where they ate their meals together. For tonight’s menu, Yennefer had portaled in a pair of steaming chickens from who knew where, and the swirling smells of rosemary and thyme wafted into the stone halls.

As they entered, Jaskier almost fell over. Geralt was already seated at the table, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d joined all of them for any kind of meal. As if this was normal. Jaskier hobbled over to the opposite side of the table, all at once feeling like a trembling fawn entering the wolf’s den. Vesemir patted him heavily on his back, causing his wounds to tweak in pain, but Jaskier was glad for the contact.

After everyone was seated, the silence was stiffening. Everyone’s discomfort resonated with Jaskier’s own, causing him to bounced his one good knee. But it wouldn’t be good if the food got cold, and they ate in silence. Eating was a little bit like meditating though, especially if one was hungry and not talking. The discomfort dissipated, and Jaskier felt himself relax.

Suddenly, Yennefer looked up from her slice of chicken breast, eying Jaskier like some of his professor’s had over their halfmoon spectacles.

“Aren’t you on a diet?” Yennefer asked with a knowing look.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jaskier looked up, brandishing a juicy drumstick, “or—maybe go fuck yourself.” 

The bard then scowled at Yennefer, ignoring to questioning glance from Geralt. She merely raised an eyebrow at him, pointedly smug and clearly having none of his bullshit. Apparently, Yennefer only used her powers for evil instead of niceness. She continued.

“Bard, I never asked. How the hell did you end up in Queen Cecilia’s court again?”

Jaskier cleared his throat, thinking _fuck off_ as loudly as he could as he glowered at her across the table.

“I was invited,” he gritted out. 

Ciri perked up at that. “Invited?”

Jaskier’s death gaze softened, “yes, it’s not uncommon for me to be invited to preform at courts. I was invited to perform by your grandmother several times.”

Ciri’s eyes widened.

“Really?”

Jaskier nodded, realizing that she probably had never heard the true story of how she had came to be Geralt’s Child of Surprise. He glanced over at the witcher in question to find that he was openly staring at him. Jaskier quickly looked away.

“Of course, sweet girl. I even played on your name day a few times, when you were much too young to remember.”

“I never knew that.”

“I’ll have to play for you later, darling. Anything you like.”

“I have news,” Yennefer interrupted. “Queen Cecilia’s been deposed. Her little show of hysterics turned the whole court against her.”

Jaskier gulped, digesting the information, feeling surprised at the dark pleasure rising from the sorceress and the witchers around him. Even Geralt oozed a sinister satisfaction.

“Nice,” he squeaked. Ciri gave him a look. He stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth, swallowing thickly around it, before trying for some of his more characteristic boldness. 

“Well, if it wasn’t for me, you’d have been done for, Yennefer. It was all thanks to my heroics that we made it out of there alive.”

A sudden pitch in emotion made Jaskier almost want to vomit. _Anger,_ dark and rich, wreathing Geralt like black flame. 

“I knew what the queen was trying to do, you fool,” Yennefer scoffed, as if she also didn’t feel the rivers of rage seated further down. “But you did make a rather impressive entrance, I’ll give you that. What with the blood and the bruises and the determined eyes.”

 _Fury_ like Jaskier had never felt before, and the _hatred_ was back. He tried to smile, to laugh, to make another frivolous comment to Yennefer, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was a whimper.

Geralt stood up abruptly, shoving himself backward, tableware rattling. Jaskier expected him to storm out, but instead his intense golden eyes were focused on Yennefer of all people.

“Shut up Yenn. Can’t you see no one wants to talk about this.” 

Yennefer didn’t even bat an eye.

“On the contrary, I think now is a great time to talk about this. Jaskier was tortured—”

Geralt growled, the rage climbing, climbing, and Jaskier felt like a small stone caught up in a deluge. Pitifully, he waved his hand out in front of him, as if expecting the anger to culminate in a physical blow.

“Please—”

Geralt switched his gaze from the witch to the bard, before returning to the sorceress with murderous eyes. The rage peaked.

“DAMMIT Yennefer! Would you shut the fuck up!”

Eskel, who had been seated next to Geralt, stood up and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Yennefer remained silent, her own fury burning in her amethyst eyes, but she did not stand up. Instead, she turned in her seat to face Jaskier, snatching his outstretched hand and holding it tightly in hers.

A sudden flood of calmness came over him, and he looked gratefully up at her. He had known his mind was still weak from his attack on the guards, but knowing and feeling were two different things.

Geralt threw Eskel’s hand and stormed out, not looking at any of them. As he left, Jaskier felt his rage and hatred spill into something else, something ugly and painful.

Guilt.

A few hours later, Yennefer joined him in his room. For a few minutes, they simply watched the fire dance in the fireplace, the heat welcome in the cold winter air.

“Why do you care Yennefer?”

It had been something Jaskier had been wondering all week. She shrugged.

“No one’s ever walked into danger knowing they probably wouldn’t live for me before.”

She says it flippantly, but her emotions betray the true weight behind the words.

A log popped loudly. Sparks flew every which way. Even if the world didn’t know magic, Jaskier thought, at least it would still have the wonders of fire.

“Of all the things I thought I would gain by the end of this, your friendship was the last on the list.”

Yennefer regarded him for a moment.

“You haven’t told Geralt about your abilities yet.”

Jaskier shook his head. Yennefer huffed, reading the complex feelings that ‘no’ brought with it.

“You know, I didn’t just come to Queen Cecilia’s court on a whim. I was tracking you. Someone had tasked me with your retrieval.” 

Jaskier glanced up sharply, but Yennefer was already leaving.

Geralt had returned to training Ciri, but Jaskier found it hard to not come and watch the sessions. Ciri was a natural, far more coordinated and capable then he could ever dream of being, and the chemistry between her and Geralt was clear. It was obvious that she saw Geralt as her father, and she as his daughter. It made Jaskier warm inside.

Whenever Jaskier was around, Geralt would simmer in those same dark emotions, but Jaskier wanted to be there for Ciri. She was a star in an empty sky, and Jaskier already loved her deeply. Two days after Geralt’s dinner blow up, Jaskier sat a safe distance away from the action with Vesemir. The older witcher was quiet but unwavering, and Jaskier was fond of his company. They were discussing witcher lore when suddenly he heard Ciri cry out.

Vesemir, the kind man, helped Jaskier get to his feet before rushing over to see what was wrong. Jaskier limped the short distance to the training pit where Geralt was currently kneeling down beside Ciri.

“I twisted it,” she whined.

Geralt was grasping her foot in his hand and carefully rolling her foot in a circular motion, trying to pinpoint the sprain. He stopped as soon as Ciri’s face twisted in pain.

Seeing the lion cub grimace activated an instinct within the bard which he knew from over twenty years of experience could not be suppressed. Shambling forward, he slowly knelt in front of Ciri. Ignoring Geralt’s rapid glances, he took the girl’s foot out of his hands. With his aching mind, he reached out to Ciri’s pain and _pulled._

Ciri gasped.

Jaskier winced, feeling the sprain rush down to Jaskier’s already broken leg. He smiled down at Ciri though.

“All better?”

She nodded, her face a picture of surprise and wonder. Jaskier let go of her foot, letting her twirl it around, as good as new.

“ _Jaskier._ ”

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

Jaskier didn’t look at the growling witcher beside him, and instead focused on an escape plan. He struggled to his feet, excuses darting to and fro. A firm hand grasped his forearm, pulling him the rest of the way up, and Jaskier turned to give a say thank you to Vesemir for helping him out of this crisis situation. But when he looked up, it was Geralt.

Geralt, who’s aureate eyes were wide, fear and surprise seeping out of him like a leaking barrel. Jaskier’s mouth was dry.

“Look, Geralt, I can explain.”

Jaskier cut himself off, expecting Geralt to say something, do something. But the witcher kept searching his face, that same fear trickling out. 

“I’ll take over the rest of Ciri’s training today,” Vesemir said, stepping forward to usher Ciri to the other side of the training pit. Jaskier really needed to write that man a song cycle.

“Could you help me to my room? We can talk there.”

Geralt nodded.

The trip to his room was quiet, and for once, Jaskier didn’t feel allergic to the silence. It felt good on his mind, not having to juggle conversation and emotion all at once. Geralt kept his hand on Jaskier’s forearm the entire way, taking a lot of Jaskier’s weight as they made their way through narrow stone hallways, and the bard felt his heart melt. How noble this witcher was, to help an injured man he hated up to his room.

Geralt led him through the door and up onto his bed, lifting his leg and gently placing it on the cushioning. All of a sudden, Jaskier felt like crying. His eyes watered up, and he bit his tongue, trying desperately to stave off the incoming sobs. Geralt’s fear rose in response to his welling tears, and he took a large step back from the bed. For some reason, Geralt was _afraid_ of him—afraid of what he was, what his abilities were.

But the first thing out of Jaskier’s mouth was, “Did you send Yennefer to come find me?”

Geralt whole body went rigid, but he did not look away from Jaskier.

“Hm.”

“Yennefer mentioned something to me the other day. Did you really send her out like an errand girl to go fetch me?”

Geralt grunted.

“You did?! But why? I know you hate me.”

Geralt’s face did something complicated, something scrunched that then smoothed back into his usual mask. Jaskier looked at him, refusing to continue until he answered. Eventually, as if passing a lodestone, Geralt rumbled.

“I don’t hate you.”

Jaskier scoffed.

“Well, that’s a lie.”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do! Geralt, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner, but I can feel people’s emotions. I know what anyone is feeling at any given moment. And trust me, whenever you’re around me, you feel hatred.”

Silence. Jaskier sighed.

“And even if I didn’t have this ability to feel emotions, you told me pretty clearly last time we were together how my very existence was a curse, and my absence a blessing. I’m a shit-shoveler, and you hate me.”

Geralt stared at him. Jaskier bit his lip.

“I don’t.”

“You _do._ Why do you keep insisting otherwise? You hate me so much. You get angry when you’re near me. And now you’re afraid of me because of my ability,” Jaskier waved his arms spastically, “to do things. I promise I’m not dangerous. I can barely defend myself. I’m much better at healing and shit.”

The witcher took a step forward so that he was standing right next to the bard.

“Is that what you did with Ciri?”

Jaskier nodded, now a little afraid to speak. Geralt took another half a step forward, his emotions urgent and intense.

“Have you done it before?”

Jaskier nodded again, a little more hesitantly. Geralt pointed at himself. Another nod. Geralt huffed, urgent once more.

“Does it hurt?”

Jaskier paused, unsure of what Geralt was getting at. The fear seeping from Geralt was still dripping off of him, and the bard felt wrong footed and confused. Geralt growled, obviously not happy with the lack of a response.

“ _Does it hurt?”_

“Yes!” Jaskier squeaked. “It does! I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s not that bad, it just depends. It only lasts a few minutes, sometimes. Um, I mean, it’s lasted longer when the injury is worse. It would always have gone away by the time you woke up if you’d passed out from an injury, but generally I’d do it in small increments so that you wouldn’t notice. I’m so sorry I kept it from you, it’s just that the last time I told someone it hadn’t gone well and—”

Geralt was striding out of the room. He slammed the door.

Jaskier stared, dumbfounded, before the tears finally won their struggle to the surface and spilled over.

Ciri was seated at the foot of his bed, listening to the tale of how he got captured by Queen Cecilia. Eskel sat by the fireplace, and although he didn’t ooh and ahh like Ciri did at Jaskier’s masterful storytelling, he was clearly listening closely. Yennefer sat opposite of him, a mug of some kind of cider in her hands.

“I sensed that Yennefer was inside the hall, and I knew that I had to come to her aid, lest she be captured as well—”

The sorceress snorted. Ciri’s eyes twinkled.

“I rushed in, expecting for all intents and purposes to die to save a fair maiden’s life—”

“You wish,” Yennefer muttered around a sip of her cider.

“—when the evil Queen Cecilia ordered a dozen of her finest royal guards to attack!”

“You’re hardly proficient in battle,” noted Eskel, not unkindly.

“I pushed a wave of emotion at them,” Jaskier explained. After Geralt had stormed off, he’d come clean to the rest of Kaer Morhen’s residents, none of which seemed to be even slightly concerned about his abilities. He had never felt more accepted in his entire life.

“Are they dead?” asked Ciri.

“No, child. I could never kill anyone. I merely incapacitated them for a moment. It was the most aggressive thing I think I’ve ever done.”

Then Eskel nodded at the doorway, apprehension ballooning in him swiftly.

“Geralt, nice to see you.”

Jaskier felt like a block of ice was in his stomach. The blanket he had been holding up over his legs slipped, pooling on the floor.

Ciri, the amazing girl, scowled at her father.

“If you’re going to be mean to Jaskier again, you can just leave.”

Jaskier felt a burst of affection for the girl. Yennefer set her mug down and gestured at Eskel. Ciri seemed hesitant to leave, but Jaskier pasted on a smile for her. He didn’t really want them to go. He didn’t want to hear what Geralt was about to say. Best to cut him off before he started.

When it was only the bard and the witcher in the room, Jaskier didn’t wait to for Geralt to speak.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say. You want me to leave Kaer Morhen. I promise I will, just please let me stay until I’ve healed up somewhat. My whole body still hurts, and of course, my leg—”

“Jaskier, I don’t fucking hate you.”

Jaskier let out a long exhale.

Geralt gritted his teeth.

“I don’t.”

“Do you really have to rub salt into the wound, Geralt. I _know_ how much you hate me. I promise I’ll take myself off your hands as soon as I can. Please it’s—” a sob wrenched itself from his throat, “it’s already hard enough to love someone who will never love me back.”

Geralt made a wounded noise, and Jaskier felt the sudden onslaught of that sticky guilt again, globular and phlegm-like.

“Jaskier.”

The bard looked up at the witcher.

“It’s not _you_ I hate _._ ”

Geralt clicked his mouth shut, and Jaskier clutched his bed sheets in a white-knuckle grip. If Geralt didn’t hate him, then…

Oh.

“Fuck,” Geralt spat out, eyes glued to his boots, “I’m sorry. For what I said. For,” he shut his eyes, “not noticing all the pain I was causing you.” 

Jaskier blinked.

“I’m sorry too, for not telling you. I really wanted you to know. I was just being a coward.”

Geralt shook his head. He grabbed the blanket that had fallen down and brought it back up over the bard’s legs.

“I don’t hate you,” he repeated, and finally Jaskier understood.

“That bitch Cecilia is dead.”

Yennefer strolled into the room, all swag and confidence. Jaskier raised his head off of Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher wasn’t one for public displays of affection, but he did like physical contact. In the privacy of Kaer Morhen, the bard let loose, climbing over the man like a monkey.

“Her? How do you know that?”

It had been three years since he’d been captured by the Queen. Jaskier had returned to traveling with Geralt, although it was different from the past twenty years. Different in the best way.

Yennefer shrugged.

“Heard she died in her sleep.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes.

“Did she.”

“Yup,” Yennefer said, popping the ‘p.’

“Well,” Geralt rumbled, “good riddance.”

Jaskier nodded, basking in the love flowering from him like a dandelion. Any outsider looking at the witcher right now would say he was annoyed at best.

But Jaskier, pressed tightly up against his witcher, knew better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one comment = comfort for a sad lonely author 
> 
> This chapter started small, and then grew and grew until it was over double the size of my other chapters. Honestly, I should have broken it up, but...five chapters is such a nice number.   
> This was such a fun and interesting story to write. Let me know if you want a sequel :)


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